Aunt Dimity and the Village Witch Read online

  “Casual,” I replied, “but not cheap. An oversized shirt in a pretty Liberty print, worn open over a pale blue silk T-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting khaki trousers. She was directing the decorators,” I reminded them, “so she wouldn’t be wearing her Sunday best.”

  “Shoes?” said Charles.

  “Tasseled loafers,” I said. “Conventional, but pricey. And the double strand of pearls she was wearing didn’t come from a cereal box.”

  “Ergo,” Charles murmured reflectively, “Mrs. Thistle is monied, but not showy.” He smiled. “I like her already.”

  “I’ll reserve judgment,” said Grant.

  The buzz of conversation ceased as the front door opened and Bree Pym strode into the tearoom. Nineteen-year-old Bree was from New Zealand, but she’d inherited a lovely old house as well as a pot of money from her great-grandaunts, the late and much lamented Ruth and Louise Pym, who’d lived on the outskirts of Finch. Though Bree had made their house her own, she hadn’t yet been embraced by everyone in the village.

  The most narrow-minded among us objected to her tattoos, her pierced nose, and her skimpy attire, but almost everyone was wary of her sly wit. Bree could throw verbal darts with great accuracy, a skill she displayed shortly after she closed the door behind her.

  “’Morning, Henry,” she called to Henry Cook, who’d emerged from the kitchen bearing four plates piled high with buttery crumpets.

  “’Morning, Bree,” he called back, smiling delightedly.

  Bree appealed to Henry’s sense of mischief. He loved to hear her say aloud what most of us said only to ourselves.

  “Full house today,” Bree commented cheerfully, gazing around the room. “No surprise there. Best spot in town to spy on the new woman. I’m glad her gear hasn’t arrived yet. I can’t wait to see if she’s filthy rich or just rich enough to look down her nose at the rest of us.”

  Henry’s face split into a broad grin as he served the crumpets to the Handmaidens, but the ladies were not amused.

  “Spy?” Elspeth Binney hissed indignantly.

  “The very idea,” huffed Opal Taylor.

  “Of all the nerve,” grumbled Millicent Scroggins.

  “So rude,” muttered Selena Buxton.

  “So true,” Grant said under his breath.

  Charles and I nodded our agreement. The Handmaidens could protest until they were blue in the face, but they knew as well as we did why half of Finch’s population had chosen that particular morning to visit Sally’s tearoom or to take the air on the village green.

  “I’ll keep a lookout, shall I?” Bree asked the room at large. She glanced in the direction of the church and smiled brightly. “And none too soon. Here they come, ladies and gentlemen. Let the show begin!”

  A moment later, a silver-gray Fiat sedan passed the tearoom, followed by a medium-sized moving truck. The short, nicely rounded, ruddy-faced woman driving the Fiat parked it in the narrow shed beside Pussywillows, then walked to the rear of the truck to have a word with the movers.

  “There she is,” I murmured. “Mrs. Amelia Thistle.”

  She was dressed for the brisk weather in a knee-length brown cardigan, brown tweed trousers, and a vermillion silk blouse with a round collar. I was about to comment on the absence of her pearls when I heard Charles gasp.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, startled.

  “It can’t be,” Charles whispered. He bent forward to stare hard at Mrs. Thistle.

  “It can’t be what?” I asked.

  “It is,” he said, clapping a hand to his mouth.

  “It is what?” I demanded.

  Grant, too, was gaping at Mrs. Thistle as if she were stark naked and dancing a jig. The two men exchanged meaningful looks and rose abruptly.

  “Please excuse us, Lori,” said Grant, throwing a handful of coins on the table. “We left the kettle on the hob. Must dash.”

  I stared after my departing friends, mystified. Grant and Charles had lain in wait for Mrs. Thistle for well over an hour. Why, I asked myself, would they run off as soon as she appeared? Did they know something about her they wished to keep under wraps—something shocking, sensational, scandalous?

  The scent of intrigue was in the air and I responded to it like a wolf scenting raw steak. Although it would be a pity to miss the unveiling of Mrs. Thistle’s worldly goods, it would be downright galling to let a juicy morsel of gossip slip from my grasp. After the briefest of hesitations, I jumped to my feet, grabbed my jacket, added a few coins to Grant’s, and ran out of the tearoom, calling, “Wait for me!”

  Bree Pym, Mrs. Sciaparelli, Annie Hodge, Mr. Barlow, George Wetherhead, Christine Peacock, Sally Pyne, Henry Cook, and the Handmaidens watched intently as I followed Grant and Charles across the green, racing to keep up with their longer strides while they made their way hotfoot to Crabtree Cottage. By the time we darted into the foyer I was too winded to speak, but Charles’s voice had lost none of its power as he slammed the door shut and wheeled around to face me.

  “That woman,” he thundered, “is not Amelia Thistle!”

  Two

  The sound of high-pitched barking assaulted our ears as Goya and Matisse scampered into the foyer to find out who’d slammed the front door. While I leaned against the wall to catch my breath, Charles scooped his golden Pomeranian into his arms and Grant bent low to give his overexcited Maltese a reassuring cuddle. Charles and Grant might own Crabtree Cottage, but their friendly little dogs ruled it.

  “What are you talking about, Charles?” I asked, when the canine chorus had subsided. “I spoke with the estate agent myself. She told me that the woman who bought Pussywillows is Mrs. Amelia Thistle.”

  “The estate agent was bamboozled,” Charles stated flatly. “And I can prove it.”

  He placed Goya gently on the floor and led the way into the front parlor, a sunny, simply furnished room that served as his office. Goya and Matisse bounced around us happily, pausing only to sniff our shoes, while Grant sank dazedly into one of the upright wooden chairs provided for clients. I stood with my back to the bay window, thanking my lucky stars that instinct had prompted me to chase after the two men. I had a feeling that I was about to learn something extremely interesting about our newest neighbor.

  Charles took a fat folder from a wooden file cabinet, placed it on his desk, and began to riffle through its contents.

  “As you know, Lori,” he began, “Grant restores works of art and I appraise them. We may not be artists, but art is our life.”

  “We eat, drink, and breathe it,” Grant put in, nodding.

  “We read about it, of course,” Charles went on, “but we also attend gallery openings, exhibitions, auctions, sales, private viewings—”

  “I know,” I interrupted. “The two of you are always haring off to London to see the latest works by the newest geniuses.”

  “Grant and I attend shows by established artists as well,” Charles countered, “and we never throw anything away.” He pulled three colorful brochures from the folder and spread them across the desk. “We collected these publicity pieces from three solo exhibitions mounted by a very well established artist.” He laid the folder aside and extended his arm toward me with a dramatic flourish. “I invite you to examine the evidence.”

  I crossed to the desk, peered down at the brochures, and read the exhibition titles aloud. “‘Mae Bowen: Nature’s Servant,’ ‘Mae Bowen: Nicotiana by Moonlight,’ ‘Mae Bowen: The Lost Glade.’” I looked inquiringly at Charles. “I don’t get it. What does Mae Bowen have to do with Amelia Thistle?”

  He flipped each brochure over and smiled triumphantly. I looked down again and saw three identical black-and-white portrait photographs of a woman who was the spitting image of the woman I’d seen speaking with the movers in front of Pussywillows.

  “I present to you,” Charles announced, “incontrovertible proof that the woman calling herself Amelia Thistle is, in fact, the well- known and highly respected English painter, Mae Bowen.”

&
nbsp; “The resemblance is uncanny,” I acknowledged, “but I wouldn’t call your proof incontrovertible.” I folded my arms. “I’ve heard it said that everyone has a double. Amelia Thistle could be Mae Bowen’s double. Or they could be identical twins. I can hardly tell my own sons apart in dim light and Ruth and Louise Pym were carbon copies of each other.”

  Grant left his chair to stand beside me at the desk, taking care to avoid tripping over Goya and Matisse as they frisked at his heels.

  “We’re not dealing with twins or doubles,” he said. “Charles and I have seen Mae Bowen in person on three separate occasions, Lori. The gestures, the stance, the walk, the tilt of the chin—they’re unmistakable.” He gazed from one photograph to the next and shook his head. “I’m willing to swear that Amelia Thistle and Mae Bowen are one and the same person.”

  I groaned softly as I recalled the chaos that had ensued when Sally Pyne had temporarily assumed a false identity.

  “Are you telling me that we have another impostor on our hands?” I asked wearily.

  “Amelia Thistle isn’t just another impostor,” Charles expostulated. “She’s Mae Bowen, England’s greatest botanical artist!”

  “She paints plants and flowers,” Grant put in.

  “I know what a botanical artist does,” I said irritably.

  “She’s insanely gifted,” Charles gloated. “A child prodigy. I believe she first put brush to paper when she was ten years old. Entirely self-taught, as a naturalist as well as a painter. Everything she knows, she knows from firsthand observation.”

  “Her face is weathered because she works en plein air, painting directly from nature,” Grant explained. “Yet her paintings aren’t merely photographic. They’re… they’re…” He squinted toward the ceiling as he searched for the right word, then shrugged helplessly. “You’ll think I’m waxing lyrical, Lori, but Bowen’s paintings are simply… magical.”

  “Prints don’t do them justice,” Charles said emphatically. “One must stand before an original Bowen to fully comprehend her brilliance.”

  “She’s not terribly prolific,” said Grant, “but each work of art she produces is a masterpiece.”

  “Do you own any?” I asked.

  “Only in our dreams,” Grant replied ruefully. “Her paintings sell for thousands of pounds, Lori. Connoisseurs the world over compete to collect them.”

  “Why haven’t I heard of her?” I asked, frowning.

  “Artists like Mae Bowen seldom make headlines,” said Grant. “Art critics spend most of their time fawning over self-promoting poseurs. They tend to ignore self-effacing geniuses like Bowen, who contribute something of lasting value to the world.”

  “Fair dues,” Charles protested. “Far be it from me to defend the critics, but it must be said that Bowen doesn’t go out of her way to make herself accessible to the press.” He gave me a sidelong, knowing look. “Truth be told, she’s a bit of a recluse.”

  “Then why did she move to Finch under an assumed name?” I asked, perplexed. “If she’s already a recluse, and if the press doesn’t pester her, why would she feel the need to change her address and her name?”

  “Why, indeed?” said Charles. “It’s more peculiar than you can possibly imagine, Lori, because Mae Bowen—” He broke off, interrupted by the doorbell, which triggered another round of frantic barking as the dogs raced each other into the foyer.

  “We’re not expecting a client, are we?” Grant asked quietly.

  “No,” Charles replied. “And we do not want visitors. See who it is, will you, Lori?”

  I tiptoed over to peer cautiously through the bay window and saw Millicent Scroggins standing on the doorstep. The skinny spinster lived next door to Crabtree Cottage, but I’d last seen her in Sally Pyne’s tearoom, conversing volubly with the rest of the Handmaidens.

  “It’s Millicent,” I whispered over my shoulder.

  “What’s she doing here?” whispered Grant, looking annoyed.

  “Go and find out,” Charles whispered to him. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t tell her about Mae Bowen.”

  Grant shushed him and went to answer the door. Charles and I moved closer to the hallway, the better to eavesdrop.

  After greeting Grant and praising “the dear little puppies,” Millicent got down to business.

  “I do hope you’ll forgive the intrusion,” she said in an overly solicitous tone of voice. “I wanted to make sure that you and Lori and Charles were all right.”

  “She’s snooping,” Charles murmured, his eyes narrowing.

  “Naturally,” I murmured back.

  “I couldn’t help but notice your rather abrupt exit from the tearoom,” Millicent continued. “I was afraid that one of you might have been taken ill.”

  “No, no,” Grant assured her airily. “We’re quite well, thank you.”

  “I am pleased,” said Millicent, but she wasn’t about to let Grant off the hook so easily. “You gave us quite a scare, you know, running away as you did. Selena said you looked as though you’d seen a ghost.” Millicent’s tinkling laugh set the dogs off again, but she simply talked over them. “Selena has quite a vivid imagination.”

  “You can tell Selena that we didn’t see a ghost,” said Grant. “We saw something far more disturbing.”

  “Did you?” Millicent prompted eagerly.

  “Oh, yes,” Grant said gravely. “We saw ourselves sitting there, staring at Mrs. Thistle as if she were a monkey in a zoo. And suddenly, we felt ashamed.”

  Charles emitted a snort of suppressed laughter and I smiled wryly. Grant had apparently decided to have a little fun with his inquisitive neighbor.

  “Ashamed?” Millicent echoed, sounding bewildered. “Of what?”

  “Of ourselves,” Grant answered solemnly. “What is the world coming to, we asked ourselves, when a respectable woman can’t move into a respectable house without being gawped at by a crowd of strangers? We were sickened, I tell you, sickened by our own despicable behavior, so we came away, before we could lose any more of our self-respect.”

  “I see.” Millicent hesitated, then said, “I hope you don’t think I was there to…to gawp at Mrs. Thistle.”

  “The possibility never occurred to me,” Grant told her.

  “Because I can assure you that I had no such intention,” Millicent stated militantly. “I went there, as I often do, to have a cup of tea and to visit with my friends. I can’t speak to their intentions, of course. They may have gone to the tearoom to gawp, but I most certainly did not.”

  “Of course not,” said Grant.

  “Dear me,” Millicent said fretfully. “I seem to have left my gloves behind. If you’ll excuse me, Grant, I’ll pop back to the tearoom to fetch them. Please give my best to Charles and Lori, won’t you?”

  “I will,” said Grant.

  I heard the sound of footsteps scurrying down the front walk, then the click of the latch as Grant closed the front door. Charles and I gave him a brief round of applause when he stepped into the office.

  “An inspired performance,” I said.

  “Grant has a gift for improvisation,” Charles said proudly.

  “So does Millicent,” I said. “If she came here to inquire after our health, I’ll eat my sneakers. She was fishing for scraps of gossip to bring back to her cronies.”

  “And you sent her away with a flea in her ear,” said Charles, beaming at his partner. “Shall we celebrate your victory with a tot of brandy?”

  Grant nodded, but I declined. I wasn’t a teetotaler, but the thought of sipping brandy in the middle of the day made me feel slightly queasy. While Charles and Goya bustled off to the kitchen, Grant resumed the chair he’d occupied earlier. I took a seat in the chair next to his and bent to scratch Matisse behind the ears.

  “You parried Millicent’s thrusts beautifully,” I commented.

  “I put her on the defensive by taking the moral high ground,” Grant allowed, “but I’m not sure she believed me. I’ve lived in Finch for too lon
g to have scruples about minding other people’s business.”

  I sat up and turned to face him. “Why didn’t you come straight out and tell Millicent about Mae Bowen?”

  “Because the longer we keep Mae Bowen’s secret, the better off we’ll be,” Grant replied. “Don’t misunderstand me, Lori. It’s an honor to have such a distinguished artist in our midst, but it’s an honor that could cost us dearly.”

  He was about to elaborate when Charles returned with two oversized snifters containing generous tots of brandy. He handed one to Grant, then seated himself behind the desk and drank from his own.

  “Thank you, Charles,” said Grant, after taking a restorative sip. “Shall we carry on where we left off before we were so rudely interrupted?”